After ten years as a flight attendant, I thought I knew every sound an airport could make.
Suitcase wheels rattling over tile. Boarding announcements cutting through conversations. Babies screaming because their ears hurt. People arguing into phones.
But eighteen years ago, after a red-eye from Denver, I heard a sound in the women’s restroom near Gate 17 that stopped me cold.
I thought I knew every sound an airport could make.
A baby crying, weakly, but with such desperation that the sound clawed straight through me.
I didn’t even think.
I hurried into the restroom.
« Hello? » I called.
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